Fixing Sam
by Rokhal
Summary: A worst-case scenario inspired by 6.5. Whatever's been walking around with Sam's face is not Sam. Dean gets Sam back. There's no happy ending.


Do Fair Use Rules say I can do this? Do you really want to get into this with me, legal department? Huh? Do ya?

So, I wrote a gigantic plot summary for Live Free or Twi-Hard, and I had a really depressing thought that I just had to share with everybody. Think of it as a horror comment fic without the prompt.

Enjoy!

* * *

It wasn't Sam, and its soul wasn't human, but whatever it was, it wasn't strong enough to break out of a set of zip ties.

Dean dragged it along the floor, careful not to strain its shoulders or pound its head into anything, much as he wanted to. Sam would need that body when he came back.

"Dean," it spat. "Dean, wait. _Listen_ to me. You can't—I was sent here to do something, Dean! Look—I know you don't like my tactics. And I'm _sorry_, okay?"

"Save it," Dean snapped. He grabbed a bowl of ceremonial paint and a brush, his hand steady as if he had a gun in it.

"You want to save people?" the thing continued, as Dean ringed him in murky green. "Saving people, hunting things? That's what this is supposed to be about, right?" The circle closed, and the thing gasped, words cutting off before it began to shove them out again, rapid-fire. "The plan's supposed to save people, Dean! Human people! The Alphas, the Mustering—there's an Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny on the marquee, and with Alphas loose, humans are gonna get subjugated. Like—like Lisa and Ben. You want to see some vampire snacking on her, all that dusky skin torn off her throat? Or maybe they'd turn Ben. Vamps don't age, y'know, you want some abomination with Ben's face running around killing people, ten years old forever?"

Dean ran a series of runes intersecting the circle border, glancing back and forth between his work and his print-outs.

"God, it's like talking to a wall here," the thing hissed. "Dean, you gotta listen. Look, man, I'm sorry about the demon blood. That what this is about, the demon blood? I can't have any good plans 'cause I screwed up one time?"

"It's not about the demon blood," Dean told it, his voice as steady as the ringing in his ears. "That was Sam. You had nothing to do with it."

"Then why do I remember it?" The thing sighed and tried another tack. "Dean. I know you miss how I used to be, and that's okay: I have been a little...off. And I screw up sometimes, okay? I'll admit it. Just let me out, and I promise I'll listen better. I need you, man! You're the closest thing I got to being who I was, and I'm sorry I didn't see that before."

Dean set the bowl on the table and washed the brush off in the sink. He picked up the Gaelic incantation and gave it a final scan.

"Whoa!" the thing exclaimed, eyes wide in frustration and fear. Fear of failing, fear of being stopped. "I was sent here for a reason. You know that! I'm not a great person, I'm not supposed to be a good _person_, Dean, but you don't know what you're messing with here. I'm a hunter, I like to hunt, I'm good at it, I don't run around killing civilians for fun. My soul—my soul, if you're right, my soul's been with _Lucifer_ for the past year, Dean. Do you really want to mess with that? You want to bring that up here?"

"I want Sam back," Dean told it. "And now that you're here, I can summon him. And he's gonna lay an astral beat-down on your ass."

"I know," whispered the Sam-thing. "Dean, _don't._"

Dean read, carefully. At the first word, the thing fell silent, and there was just the Gaelic stumbling around the room, catching under his tongue and dragging in the back of his throat. The lights flickered half-way through, and as Dean closed the last phrase, the green paint flared red before charring black grooves into the floorboards. Sam's body screamed.

"Sammy?" Dean demanded, grabbing his shoulder. Sam's eyes were huge and terrified—when had he seen that last? Too long, not long enough.

"T—told you," Sam grunted.

Told him what? Dean wondered, his hand hovering over the wire ties. Told him not to get him out? Not to mess with the Cage?

Sam screamed again, the scream cutting off into stifled choking. "He's a little mad," Sam hissed on a gasp. "Told you not to bring him up."

Dean withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels, watching.

Sam writhed on the floor, the ties cutting into his wrists, his legs and back straining, little breaths stuttering into a long whine, and then laughter, soft laughter as his eyes squeezed shut, then slitted open, slowly. "Hey, Dean," Sam murmured, and this was Sam.

"Sammy," Dean said. Sam's shoulder was warm through his jacket. "You—how you doin'?"

"Better now." Sam smiled, a wan, slow smile that brightened like moonrise as he took Dean in. "I'm out. The Cage is still—_dude,_" he whispered in admiration. "Can't believe it."

Dean smiled, and warmth pooled lax and soothing through his chest. Sam was too calm, but who knows what the Cage was like. "You ready to be cut loose? You had a passenger in there for a while."

Sam frowned vacantly. "Gimme a sec." He shut his eyes. "Got him. I'm just gonna—" Sam cut off, silent and still for a moment.

Then he screamed again, and this time was worse, this time wasn't fear, wasn't shock, this was long, despairing, broken screaming, like vinegar doused on a wet-scorched back, like a squeeze to the mess of nerves in the abdomen, like a thousand slices to the hands and lips burning with ammonia, like torsion on all the long bones at once: this was pain beyond all thought and awareness, on the edge of too far, in the region of madness.

"No," Dean whispered, clutching him. "No. No, Sammy, no—!"

The screaming stopped, and Sam was shaking. Sam was laughing, eyes bright and satisfied. "_God_ that felt good," he muttered.

"Christo," Dean breathed.

Sam's brow crinkled, but his eyes were clear. "No, Dean, hey. 'M sorry. It's not human, right? It's not me, I guess it's some sort of construct."

Dean backed out of the circle. "What was that, Sam?" His voice was steady as though his hand had a gun in it.

Sam winced and rolled onto his back. "Nothin', don't worry about it."

"_Sam,_" Dean snapped. "I got enough bullshit from Stepford-you. Don't feed me that."

"I'm okay—I'll be okay," Sam insisted. "Sorry, I just—Lucifer's _gone_, Dean, I just got my brain back. You don't know how good it feels. And this thing's right _there_, and I can grab it, I can hold it, and it just..." Sam laughed and grinned up at the ceiling. "Just felt so good to hurt something."

Sam was back. Dean's hand twitched for the gun he didn't have.


End file.
